


Broken

by CloseToSomethingReal



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Auto-Cannibalism, Basically I am mean to Crowley again, Blood, Bone Breaking, Branding, But this time I was provoked, Cannibalism, Extreme Gore, Forced auto-Cannibalism, Heart removal, Hearts, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Knives, M/M, Organ Removal, Rape/Non-con - Freeform, Saws, Torture, Wings, based on a prompt, bones - Freeform, heart removal and the guy lives, it's brutal, plucking feathers, vomitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:47:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23435665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloseToSomethingReal/pseuds/CloseToSomethingReal
Summary: My submission for Whiteleyfoster's fanfic contest!Hell doesn't send rude notes, indeed.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 89





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).



> Based off of this art by Whiteleyfoster!  
> https://whiteleyfoster.tumblr.com/post/612585496466587648/if-my-people-hear-i-rescued-an-angel-ill-be-the

The problem with rescuing someone, is most of the time, it leaves no one to rescue you. 

Crowley wondered, with what little of his focus he had left to use to wonder, if that was a selfish way of thinking. 

He supposed he was meant to be selfish. He was a demon. 

The crêperie had been lovely, even with Aziraphale being absolutely ridiculous about how good the crêpes were. He’d enjoyed a nice glass of wine and watched the angel eat his crepes, savouring every bite.

They had parted with an awkward goodbye, they were an angel and a demon, and they couldn’t be seen being friendly, after all. 

And he had assumed that he would resume business as usual. Had straightened his collar, given his head a confident shake and stepped out the doors, only to be grabbed by the back of the collar and yanked backwards. 

He croaked and whirled around, but didn’t get a chance to see his attacker before pain blossomed in his skull and the world went black. 

He awoke to something dripping down his forehead. His eyes slowly flickered open, his head lolled to the side. 

The light was flickering around him, orange and red and yellow.

His head throbbed. For a moment, he couldn’t remember why. He tried to reach up and touch his temple, get a sense of what was happened, and found that his hands were bound with rope. 

He tugged, but the rope held fast. “I see you’re awake, Crowley,” a voice growled. “About time. I was wondering when you were going to join us after your little nap.” 

Crowley forced himself to look up, to take in the grimy face and black eyes staring down at him. 

“You… you  _ hit _ me. Was that strictly necessary, you could have just asked me to go with you? Why am I here, Duke Hastur?” Crowley asked, forcing himself to sit up and take inventory of what was going on. 

The side of his head felt weird. It must have been where Hastur had struck him. It was dripping blood, that was what had woken him.

His hair was mussed and falling in his face, he couldn't get it out of the way without his hands.

His hands were bound behind his back, his ankles to the legs of a wooden chair. 

Hastur didn’t bother to give him an answer. He approached, a sick twisted grin on his face. 

Crowley felt a pit sinking deep into his stomach as the situation started dawning on him. Hastur grabbed onto his coat, tore it wide open, popping little gold buttons all over the room. Then he ripped open Crowley's black dress shirt, exposing his bare shoulder. 

The hairs on the exposed flesh immediately stood up on end.h

Crowley started looking around, trying to figure out what was about to happen. “Hastur, what’s going on?” He asked, shifting around to try and see the rest of the room. 

There was a fire in the corner. Something like a poker was sitting in it. 

Crowley bit his lip. "Mind telling me what I'm here for, Duke Hastur? He asked, a little nervously. "I know the quota on Earth isn't as impressive as it has been before, but I thought Hell was happy with the revolution going on? Surely I'm meeting expectations, just look at what they're doing to each other!"

"I think you know  _ exactly _ what you're here for, Crowley." 

"I really don't." 

"Rescuing an angel?" Hastur asked, clicking his tongue. "The Principality was set to be executed today, and instead we find him eating crêpes with you, now I wonder what that could be about?" the Duke mused. "Wouldn't be that you freed him from the Bastille and invited him to lunch, now would it?"

Crowley didn't answer. His throat went dry. 

"Hell  _ was  _ impressed with you. The revolution really is quite something, and the Dark Council especially was interested to see the principality get his head disconnected from his shoulders. But, alas, that didn't happen. Actions have  _ consequences _ , Crowley. You need to know who you serve. In fact, the Dark Council was so disappointed, they decided you could use a little reminder." 

Hastur grabbed the poker out of the fire. 

It wasn't a poker. It had a symbol on the end, one Crowley knew well, glowing white-hot from where it had been stuck in the fire. 

"I really don't think this is necessary, Hastur," Crowley began, squirming in his seat as Hastur approached, nearly toppling right off the chair. The Duke grabbed him by the shirt collar and hauled him back up, held him still, fist balled in his black shirt.

Hastur laughed. "Since when does Hell only do what's necessary, Crowley?" He asked, sneering down at the demon as he pressed the fiery-hot brand into Crowley's shoulder. 

He couldn't help it. The moment the metal seared his flesh he screamed, unable to keep himself quiet for even a second as the metal bubbled into his skin, melting down layers and puckering the flesh around the white-hot brand. 

He tried lurched away, but Hastur held tight to his shirt, pulling him into the brand when he tried to get away, kept the metal pressed against his skin, let it sizzle and burn, let the smell of burning flesh make him nauseous as pain still forced its way down his shoulder and throughout his body. 

Crowley couldn't help the tears streaming down his cheeks, his head started to spin as the pain continued and he wavered, Hastur forced to hold him up when he couldn't do it himself.

Hastur finally pulled the cherry-red iron away when he was satisfied the whale's cross was properly burned into Crowley's shoulder. 

Crowley instantly collapsed in the seat, sprawled across his own legs, retching, choking and gasping for breath, his flesh still burning deeper with every second that passed. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he couldn't stop them, his stomach forced anything that it had contained back up and onto his shiny black shoes.

Hastur grabbed him by the chin, ignoring the spittle and vomit, forced him to look up. The serpent shook in his grasp, limp in Hastur's grip. "That ought to remind you who you belong to," he spat, before releasing Crowley's chin and letting him drop back down, nearly boneless. 

Crowley gasped again for air, tried to summon some composure even as the brand continued lacing fire into his shoulder. "I- I'll never forget again, Duke Hastur," he choked out, had to lean over to vomit again before continuing. "Never again. Please- just let me- just let me go I'll-" Crowley broke off into hysteric sobs he couldn't control, spat more stomach acid and saliva onto the floor as his stomach and throat convulsed.

"Let you go?" Hastur laughed. "And what is it that makes you believe we're done with you? By the time we  _ are, _ it won’t matter where your loyalties lie. You’ll be so damn broken that an angel won’t want anything to do with you. I hope the crêpes were worth it.” 

Hastur finished ripping his coat and shirt open, traced his fingers down Crowley's bare chest. "I can think of a  _ lot  _ of ways to break  _ you." _

And no one was coming to rescue him from this one.

_ Holy Water.  _

The brand in Crowley's shoulder twinged as he passed Aziraphale the note. It was sheer luck that the angel couldn't see how his hands shook. 

He needed  _ something _ to protect himself. He wouldn't go through that again. He couldn't go through that again. Next time, he needed a way out. 

"Out of the question _ ,"  _ Aziraphale hissed, trying to shove the note back to Crowley. Crowley refused it. 

"Why not?" 

"Holy Water won't just kill your body, it would destroy you! I'm not giving you a suicide pill, Crowley!" Aziraphale snapped. 

"That's not what I want it for!" Crowley said desperately. "I just need insurance!" He insisted. 

"I'm not an idiot, Crowley! Do you know what trouble I'd get in if they knew that I'd been… fraternizing?" Aziraphale asked, glaring over at him.

The word stung almost more than the branding had. "Fraternizing?" Crowley demanded, feeling the shake in his hands grow uncontrollable. Fraternizing? After all he had been through for saving Aziraphale, the angel called this  _ fraternizing?  _ He had suffered where no one cared to hear him scream for years, had been broken apart time and time again, haphazardly reassembled just so someone could do it again, crawled his way back to the surface and slowly put himself back together, piece by piece, with wine and sleep and thoughts of getting back to the angel he had saved serving as glue, and the angel called this  _ fraternizing?  _

"Or whatever you wish to call it!"

He could have screamed. He could have cried he could have torn his hair and shouted himself silly up into the clouds where no one else listened to him anymore. 

Instead, he lashed out. "I have lots of other people to  _ fraternize  _ with, angel!" 

"Of course you do."

"I don't need you!" 

"And the feeling is mutual! Obviously!" 

Aziraphale threw the note into the duck pond. It burst into flames when it hit the water.

"Obviously," Crowley repeated bitterly, as the angel stormed off. Ignored the tears that slipped down his cheeks without his permission.

Hastur had been right. 

The angel likely wanted nothing to do with him anymore.

And he was defenseless to whatever Hell sought to do to him.

The thought made Crowley's skin crawl and stomach churn. He tried to head home, but his body's involuntary reaction just had him hanging over the metal gate that separated the wandering citizens from the pond, retching and choking up whatever his body could produce. 

He didn't remember getting home. 

He just knew that when he did, he went directly to bed, and didn't wake up for a long, long time. 

And no demon should hope for sweet dreams.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright I didn't expect to continue this but here we are, I've rediscovered my love of writing gore so I'm going off a bit.

"Crowley? What is  _ that?"  _

Crowley looked over at Aziraphale in confusion, trying to work out what the angel could possibly be talking about. “What’s what, angel?” He asked blearily, raising an eyebrow. “Same old shoulder it’s always been, why’re you staring?”

“No, not your shoulder, Crowley, what’s on it?” Aziraphale asked, sitting up a little more and leaning down to inspect whatever he was staring at. 

Crowley looked over, but didn’t have to. It had clicked seconds after he had asked Aziraphale what was wrong. “Eh, just a burn, innit angel?” He said dismissively. “Got plenty of those.”

“Crowley, this is most certainly not just a burn! That’s-”

“Whale’s cross, alchemical symbol for sulphur, the devil’s cross. Why does it surprise you that it’s there?”

“Has it always been there?” Aziraphale asked, peering down at it. “Some sort of Hellish symbol that you all have?”

“Nah. It’s relatively new, I guess. Sometime in the eighteenth century, during the Reign of Terror,” Crowley replied, twitching away and rubbing the scar self-consciously. “It’s nothing, really. Just a bit of a mark. Hardly the worst thing Hell has done.”

Aziraphale moved away from how he had been leaning over the demon’s shoulder, finally noticing his discomfort. “The Reign of Terror? I thought you got a commendation during the Reign of Terror! What reason did they have to- to- to  _ brand _ you, Crowley?” He asked, voice wavering. “Did they find out you had nothing to do with it?”   
“Oh no, they really wouldn’t have cared about  _ that. _ Demons lie all the time, angel, Hell doesn’t care as long as their record looks good. I did something  _ way _ more deserving of punishment than lying about how the Reign of Terror started, trust me,” Crowley laughed. 

Aziraphale was silent for a moment, so silent that Crowley mistakenly believed he had dropped it, and they could move on. 

“Oh dear Lord,” the angel gasped, and Crowley swallowed a groan. “You saved me from the  _ bastille _ during the Reign of Terror.”

“I did,” Crowley agreed, fighting to keep his expression neutral. “There’s no reason why those need to be related.”

“You told me Hell would not send you any rude notes, Crowley. Is this what you meant?” Aziraphale gasped.    
“Obviously  _ this in particular _ cannot be what I meant, Aziraphale, this happened  _ after  _ I told you that!” Crowley said scornfully. 

“It did happen after. Crowley, Hell did this to you because you rescued me!” Aziraphale gasped, sitting bolt upright. 

“Of course they did, angel! I told you, no rude notes! Hell didn’t take kindly to the fact that I rescued an angel, Aziraphale, why do you think I wanted Holy Water?” Crowley demanded, rolling his eyes. "Well, really, at first I just wanted a nap, the Holy Water idea came a little bit later. Sleep is a great cure-all. 'Sides, that's just a burn. Bit of sizzling flesh, bit of vomiting and it's done. There's so much worse Hell can do to you while you're down there." 

"Is that- is that  _ all _ Hell did to you? Over saving me?"

"Yes." 

He answered too quickly, knew that Aziraphale didn't believe him for a second. “Crowley!” 

“Really? I’m the one who got hurt, and you’re going to get mad at me for not wanting to discuss it?” Crowley sneered, sitting up and sliding off the bed. “What right have you got to be angry, Angel? They’re my wounds, and they were my actions!”

“Why would you go through something terrible like that just to save me some paperwork?” Aziraphale demanded. “You didn’t have to save me! I would have been fine, and so would you! Why would you let yourself get hurt?” He demanded. 

“I didn’t want you to have to deal with the ordeal of getting a new corporation, and I was in the area,” Crowley replied with a shrug. “Should have figured I wouldn’t be the only demon in Paris that day, it’s my own fault for not checking to see if I was followed.”

“Crowley, what did they do?” Aziraphale asked quietly. “If you did it for me, then I think I have the right to know what the price was, dear.”

“It’ll just upset you, angel. There’s no point in getting into it, it was  _ centuries _ ago,” Crowley argued. 

“If it’s going to upset me, that’s all the more reason for you to tell me what happened!”

“What? Are you going to  _ feel better _ if you know what  _ I _ went through? Is it really? Because what I really remember of that whole thing is that I came back to you looking for a way to protect myself, and you told me that you couldn’t risk Heaven finding out you were  _ fraternizing,”  _ Crowley snapped, and Aziraphale recoiled in shock. “All that I had just been through because I saved  _ you _ and you couldn’t risk that  _ Heaven _ found out you had been chatting with a demon so that I had a way to stop it from ever happening again!”   
“You never told me any of this! Crowley, dear, you only told me you wanted insurance! If you had told me why-”

“Oh, and you just assume that I wanted to talk about it? That I want to talk about it now? That I  _ ever _ want to talk about what happened down there? You don’t have the first clue of what happened down there, you have no idea how long I spent on Hell’s bloody  _ carving table _ before I went and spoke to you! You haven’t got a clue what  _ demons _ can do to you, you’re a bloody angel how could you?” 

Aziraphale recoiled as though he’d been struck. “How am I supposed to understand what happened to you if you won’t tell me anything? You clearly blame me for it, how am I supposed to set that right, to apologize, if you won’t even tell me what happened? If all you want to do is use me for a punching bag?”

“I- this is ridiculous. You’re being ridiculous, this is all ridiculous and I’m not going to stand for it anymore. I’m going home, angel,” Crowley decided, grabbed his shirt and jacket off the corner of the chair in the room and threw them back on. 

“I thought this  _ was _ our home?” Aziraphale asked, puzzled. 

“Did you sell the bookshop when we moved to South Downs?” 

“No, but, it’s still full of books-”

“No you didn’t. You didn’t sell the bookshop, and you think I sold my flat? I’m going  _ home, _ angel, I’m getting out of here.”

“Crowley!” 

The demon didn’t answer. He slammed the bedroom door behind him and made off with the Bentley without another word. 

_ Everything was dark.  _

_ They liked to leave him in the dark, when they were done, even though they knew his eyes would adjust.  _

_ The world wasn’t the same without any lights, whether you could see in the dark or not. The dark closed in on you, swallowed you up into its despair and held you there, desperate for a rescue that was never coming.  _

_ Hope could always be found in the light, but the darkness and shadows of Hell snuffed it out like a candle in the middle of a hurricane.  _

_ Crowley no longer knew how long he had been in Hell. It could have been weeks, it could have been years. It was always dark, always cold, unless someone else was there. He couldn’t tell day from night, could no longer sense the hours passing by.  _

_ He  _ did _ know that it was going to be a lot longer until anyone let him go. Hastur had him down here, and no one else seemed interested in making sure their Earth agent got returned to Earth.  _

_ Hastur could keep him down there for as long as he wanted, for as long as he could come up with new things to do to the Serpent of Eden.  _

_ And demons may not be particularly creative, but after nearly six thousand years of torturing human souls, they had come up with a lot of things they could do. At Hastur’s whim, some other heinous idea would be carried out, and after the Duke was through, he left Crowley there to bleed, left him there to suffer with the pieces he had been left in, until Hastur came up with something else.  _

_ Then a lazy hand would wave, and whatever needed to be fixed just to get broken again would be. _

Crowley slammed the door to his flat behind him, locked it with a glare. 

It felt like 1862 all over again. The angel was just being stubborn, dragging up these memories. Why didn’t he have the decency to see and bloody scar and just not ask about it? 

The demon made a face, turned on the television, didn’t have to look at it to know it would be playing syndication episodes of  _ Golden Girls. _

Flopped down onto the couch. Tried to focus on the show, but found sleep tugging at his eyelids. 

It wasn’t like he had gotten a lot last night, he supposed, and let his eyes drift shut.

_ Crowley didn’t even remember how Hastur had gotten ahold of his wings. He didn’t recall summoning them, couldn’t think of anything the Duke of Hell could have said to him to make him pull them out. _

_ But it really didn’t matter how or why they were out. What mattered was the burning trail Hastur was tracing, coursing down the edge of his left wing.  _

_ He winced as Hastur took hold of another primary feather and gave it a sharp pull. The feather pulled and was torn from his flesh, and he cried out and tried to move away, to shy from the hand reaching for another feather but Hastur’s other hand gripped the joint where his wing met shoulder and pulled him back towards the duke. “Keep fighting,  _ snake, _ ” he hissed, “and I’ll break it off your damned back.” _

_ Crowley had no doubt that Hastur would do it. He made himself stay still as another feather was ripped from his wing and cast to the ground, to be crushed underfoot.  _

_ Hastur was laughing as he massacred the serpent’s wings. Laughing hysterically as he plucked feather after feather and cast them to the ground without a care.  _

_ “Such nice wings you always had,” Hastur remarked, “Satan knows why yours stayed while others burned away. I was always envious, but now…” he tore another feather, brushed it gently down Crowley’s spine. “Now I see that I’m far better off without them.” _

_ Crowley let out a strangled cry as Hastur pulled a covert, heard it snap free, and brush down his cheek.  _

_ “Been such a long time since you and I had any quality time together, Crowley. Maybe when this is done, we’ll do something a little more… personal. Right on top of the mess of your own feathers.”  _

Crowley sat bolt upright, almost falling off the couch. The television was still playing, but it had clearly been a while since he had drifted off. 

His heart was racing out of his chest, he swore he could  _ feel _ Hastur’s fingers rifling through his feathers again, looking for one to pull out, one that would hurt. 

“A drink. I need a drink,” Crowley decided, standing up on shaky legs and making his way to the kitchen, where he poured himself a hefty glass of scotch and sauntered back to the sofa. 

He had downed the scotch before he knew it. Stood up and poured another, was done that one too when he realized that he needed to stop. 

He threw the glass in the sink, tried to curl up in bed but found that he couldn’t lie still. He thrashed and turned and twisted until he gave up, walked out the door of his apartment and climbed into his car, intent to go for a drive and clear his head. 

He didn’t realize where he drove himself until he was knocking on the door of his own cottage, and a kind-faced angel pulled the door open, took one look at him and gathered him into a hug. 

“‘M sorry, angel, I-”

“My dear boy, I’ve already forgiven you. Come inside, Crowley, I’ll get you some tea. We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to, dear, I just want you to feel safe. I’m sorry, Crowley, that I haven’t made sure you were safe before, but I’m going to now. Will you forgive me, dear? I was so blind, so selfish not to see why you needed what you needed, you’d been keeping me safe for years and I couldn’t even think of returning the favour. I let you down, Crowley, but I won’t do it again. I promise.” 

“There’s nothing to forgive, angel,” Crowley said, voice husky. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Was all my own fault.”

“It’s in the past now. Come inside and have some tea, dear. I’ll keep you safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please Please PLEASE read the updated tags between now and the last part, I will try to write it so that the really bad part can be skipped and not rehashed later but I remembered how much I love writing gory torture stuff and have a very nasty idea for next chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please please please please PLEASE read the updated tags BEFORE you read this. All of the actual tagged content stays within the flashback, nobody talks about it, so if you want to skip it you can, but please do read the new tags because this is by far the worst chapter I have.

Crowley had been sitting curled in Aziraphale’s arms for long enough that his muscles were growing sore from how they were sitting. 

Still, he didn’t want to move. Despite himself, he felt warm and safe and comforted in the angel’s arms, Hastur’s fingers had finally stopped sorting through his feathers, as long as he was curled within the principality’s embrace. 

Aziraphale ran gentle fingers through his fiery red hair, Crowley’s face was pressed into his chest and hadn’t moved in hours. One of the angel’s arms was wrapped around his waist, the other curled against his shoulders so that his hands could play with Crowley’s red hair, and Crowley didn’t move. 

He was silent, and Aziraphale didn’t prompt him to break his silence. Words were hard to summon in times like these, when it felt like his throat had closed up around his tongue and that even breathing was impossible. 

“I’m sorry I brought this up, dear,” Aziraphale whispered. 

“Not your fault,” Crowley murmured, “‘should have told you years ago. Should have known you would see it.” 

Aziraphale kissed the top of his head. “I didn’t have to ask. I  _ shouldn’t _ have asked. And I shouldn’t have asked you to share what you went through with me. You were right, it was a selfish want that wouldn’t help anyone. You don’t need to tell me anything that you don’t want to talk about. I don’t want you to tell me anything, unless it’s going to help you to voice it.”

“I don’t want you to know, angel. I don’t want you to know what it took.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I understand, Crowley. Is there something you do want to do?” 

Crowley thought about it for a while. “I still need some sleep. Haven’t gotten much good sleep but- would you stay?” 

“Of course I will, Crowley. Do you want to walk to our bedroom, or shall I bring you?” 

“Don’t wanna move,” Crowley murmured. Aziraphale nodded. 

“Will you get some sleep here?” 

He nodded, carefully uncurled his legs and sprawled across the sofa, head against Aziraphale’s thighs, using them as a pillow. 

Aziraphale rested a gentle hand on the side of his head, and Crowley closed his eyes. 

_ The serpent howled, pulled against the sanctified chains that held his wrists and ankles captive as the knife was pressed into his chest, tore flesh and muscle away and scoring bones with inhuman strength, ripped a hole down the middle of his chest where blood welled and spilled over, dripping down his sides and off the table he was held against, without an inch for him to move, held fast by chains that burned and wore through his skin like paper, rubbed raw wounds into his wrists and ankles.  _

_ Things didn’t get better when Hastur grabbed his next weapon of choice from the table.  _

_ It was a saw of some sort. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut as the blade was lowered to his chest, tried and failed not to scream as it began hacking through his sternum. _

_ Hastur had very little care for how cleanly or painlessly he sawed open the demon’s ribs, hacking in choppy slashes and leaving the blade screaming along bone.  _

_ His voice went hoarse and Hastur was still gleefully hacking into his bone, and when the duke was done Crowley wished he wasn’t, as fingers pried in between the two halves of his ribcage and pulled, spreading his ribs wide open.  _

_ Hastur pushed until something cracked and even more pain blossomed along his sides, hot and sharp. Flesh tore to allow his ribs the room to spread, muscle stretched and snapped, bones cracked. _

_ Satisfied, Hastur grinned. “Are you having fun yet?” He asked, grin turning to a sneer. He released the sides of Crowley’s sternum, but the two halves didn’t move far to close in the middle.  _

_ Crowley began to feel dizzy, bile bubbled in his throat. He stared up at Hastur with foggy eyes.  _

_ “Oh, don’t be slipping away from me now,  _ snake _ , the fun has just begun!” he cried, placing the saw to the side. “I’ve got you right where I want you.”  _

_ Fingers brushed something Crowley instinctively knew nothing should touch. He thrashed, had chains cut deeper into his wrists as he failed to get away.  _

_ “Oh, no need to be afraid, snake, I’m sure you’ll survive.” _

_ That didn’t reassure Crowley in the slightest. The fingers returned, this time gripped around his heart and squeezed a little.  _

_ Crowley’s pulse jumped to his throat, he tried to get away but couldn’t, his entire body recoiled from Hastur but the duke’s grip only got tighter.  _

_ And Hastur pulled.  _

_ Crowley howled, blood gushed into his chest and spilled across the table as minor blood vessels began to snap and let go. Most major vessels didn’t snap so easily under pressure, but between Hastur continuing to pull and a little assistance from the knife from earlier, they let go soon enough.  _

_ Not for the first time, Crowley wished he was human. His blood volume was on the floor, pouring off the edge of the table.  _

_ If he were just a human, he would be dead. This would be the end.  _

_ He wouldn’t be staring up at Hastur as he admired the muscle in his hands, turned it over, it beat slowly in his blood-soaked hand until eventually it fell still.  _

_ “Quite unnecessary these things are, at least to you and I. But I know that losing one's meant to hurt,” Hastur mused.  _

_ Crowley couldn’t even focus on separate pains anymore. His entire chest hurt worse than anything else ever had. Falling couldn’t have been this bad, could it?  _

_ Hastur smirked, lifted the heart - Crowley’s heart - to his lips, hesitated a second, until he felt the serpent’s gaze on him, and bit into it.  _

_ Blood gushed down the corners of Hastur’s mouth, dripped onto the bloodsoaked floor. Hastur’s teeth ripped through the muscle like it was paper, tearing off a chunk and swallowing it whole.  _

_ Crowley’s stomach churned, he tried to move to the side and vomit, but all he could do was turn his head from how he was bound, and empty the contents of his stomach onto the table.  _

_ It seemed to give Hastur an idea. “Oh, we can’t have you going hungry, now can we?” He asked mockingly, walking closer to the serpent’s face. “No, you went for crêpes with the angel, didn’t you? Clearly you enjoy a bite to eat, wouldn’t want your stomach empty.” _ _   
_ _ Crowley didn’t like where this was going.  _

_ Hastur forced the dripping heart against his mouth. Crowley snapped his jaw shut, turned his head away, blood smeared across his lips.  _

_ “Eat, serpent.”  _

_ Crowley shook his head. Hastur pressed harder, but Crowley didn’t open his mouth.  _

_ Hastur grit his teeth, slid his other hand under Crowley’s chin, pressed his fingers into the back of his jaw.  _

_ Eventually, Crowley had to open his mouth, gagging from the pressure building in the back of his jaw, and Hastur seized the opportunity to force the heart between his teeth.  _

_ Furious, Crowley snapped his mouth shut, but all that did was make Hastur’s plan work. His sharp teeth tore through the tough flesh. He now had a chunk of his own heart in his mouth, and he couldn’t open it to try and spit it out or Hastur would take the opportunity to force more in, despite how it made him want - need - to retch and gag until it was gone.  _

_ “Swallow.”  _

_ Crowley shook his head desperately, tears streaking his cheeks.  _

_ “Swallow, snake. Remember, I can always make everything so much worse.” _

_ For some reason, Crowley believed him. He forced himself to swallow down what was in his mouth, although it made his entire body try to reject it. His stomach spasmed, he had to fight to keep it down. _

_ “Good. Now, I wonder how many more bites we have here until you’re done.” _

_ Crowley didn’t even get a chance to protest before Hastur had forced his mouth back open and shoved the warm, bloody organ back between his teeth.  _

_ Crowley didn’t close his mouth this time, let saliva build up in his jaw but refused to close his mouth.  _

_ Hastur found the strength to close it for him.  _

_ The second bite was harder to swallow than the first one.  _

_ But by the time Hastur forced a third down his throat, it was getting a little easier. “Open up, Crowley. You’ll be better off to cooperate.”  _

_ Crowley squeezed his eyes shut and made himself obey.  _

_ “There you have it, snake. Chew and swallow, Crowley. You hear me, Crowley? Are you listening? Can you hear me, Crowley?” “ _ Crowley?”

“Crowley? Crowley, dearest, wake up-”

Crowley shoved his way past Aziraphale’s concerned face, made it to the kitchen sink before he vomited. His knees gave out when he reached it and he had to hold himself up on the counter, retching and gagging and sobbing, vomit dripping down his chin, tears pouring down his cheeks. 

He collapsed to the ground the moment his stomach had stopped convulsing, buried his face in his hands and sobbed, barely even noticed that Aziraphale had ran into the kitchen behind him, wrapped arms around his shoulders and held him as tightly as he could, running a hand down his back. 

“I’ve got you, Crowley, they can’t hurt you anymore,” he whispered into the demon’s hair, as Crowley hiccuped, shifted in his arms to cling to the angel like a lifeline, face pressed into his shoulder. “I’ve got you, and they’re never going to lay a finger on you again, I promise.”

Crowley didn’t reply, just held on even tighter to the angel. 

“I’ve got you, and I’m not going to let go unless you tell me to, dear. I’m going to keep you safe, you suffered so much for me, so much that you never deserved, but you won’t suffer again. I swear it to you,” Aziraphale breathed. 

“Can’t sleep,” Crowley said quietly. 

“Then we’ll find a new way for you to rest. I’ll lay beside you and read to you all night long and you can simply relax. I won’t leave your side unless you want me to, I’ll be right here.”

“Want it to stop,” Crowley whimpered. 

Aziraphale’s heart broke for him. “It will, dear, I don’t know when but it will. I’m so sorry for putting you back through this, I’m so sorry I brought this up.”

“Brand wasn’t the worst,” Crowley admitted, “I lied. ‘M sorry, angel.”

“I knew you had, dear. Lied for my sake, to try and make me feel better when I was the reason you went through all of this, darling. Still trying to save me after all you went through for me. You don’t have to, dearest. You don’t have to lie to protect me. Let me do the protecting, you’ve done six thousand years of it.” 

Crowley sniffled. “Can’t talk about it. Too-”

He covered his mouth with his hand, Aziraphale helped him back to his feet, held him up as he stomach convulsed again, and he choked stomach acid and bile into the sink.

Gently, the angel took a damp cloth, wiped the vomit off his chin, handed him a glass of water. 

Crowley downed it like a man who had been lost in the desert for weeks.

“You don’t have to talk about it. We don’t have to ever talk about it, Crowley. I just need you to know that you’re safe here with me. That it’s  _ over.” _

Crowley nodded. 

“You never have to go through that again. Do you trust me?” 

Crowley nodded without a second’s hesitation. Aziraphale could barely swallow the implications. 

“Then trust me when I promise to keep you safe. I know they hurt you, but you can leave that in the past now. It’s never going to happen again. I’ve got you.” 

“Got me,” Crowley repeated, slowly sinking back to the floor. Aziraphale followed him, kept his arms around the demon.    
“Got you,” Aziraphale agreed. 

“Why stay with something so broken?”

Aziraphale fell silent for a moment. “Broken doesn’t take away beauty, Crowley. You might say you’re broken, but it doesn’t matter to me. You’ve been broken before, and it will take time to mend, and nothing broken ever fixes the same, but I’m going to stay here through it. I want to help you through it. I’ll be here for you.” 

Crowley didn’t say anything. Sniffled again, buried his face back into Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale rubbed his back. Lifted him off the kitchen floor and up into his arms, carefully carried him to the bedroom, to a softer place to sit and cry. 

He couldn’t deny the demon the chance to cry, wouldn’t dream of it. 

“You’re going to stay? Promise?”

“I promise, Crowley. I’ll never leave you again. You and I, we’re going to be okay from now on.”

Crowley nodded, but didn’t uncurl himself from Aziraphale’s arms at all. The angel didn’t complain. He kissed the top of Crowley’s head. “Things are going to get better.” 

“Don’t want to keep it from you,” Crowley admitted. “Might be… might be nice to tell someone, someday, but-”

“You don’t have to tell me a thing unless you’re good and ready and sure that you want to tell me. Whether I know exactly what happened or not, I’m going to be here for you. We’re going to get through this together.”

“I- I like the sound of that. They hurt me, Zira, they hurt me so badly…. I- I would have betrayed you in a second if they would have stopped.”

“I would have wanted you to, Crowley. I never wanted you to go through that. But you’re going to be safe now. I’ll be your Holy Water, everytime you need it. I’ll never refuse it to you again. I never should have.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have been updated! Implied/referenced rape/non-con has had the implied/referenced removed, please proceed accordingly  
> I did not proofread this and this is my first time writing any sort of non-con so let's hope this doesn't suck!

Aziraphale was taking careful precautions to avoid seeming impatient. He didn't want to scare Crowley out of telling him anything by pushing too hard. 

He still believed that Crowley  _ did _ want to share the stories of what had happened to him down below. 

However, it had now been a few months since their initial conversation, and though there had been other changes, Crowley had yet to say anything about what had happened. 

Which was perfectly his right. It was just that Aziraphale was  _ worried, _ and as much as he was loath to admit it, he had two reasons to want to know.

The first, that maybe if he knew what had happened he could be of more help to Crowley. 

The second, more selfish, that he wanted to know because it was his fault and he felt the need to know  _ exactly _ what he had caused. He felt the need to be able to apologize and fully understand the extent of the damage he had caused to Crowley, intentionally or not. 

He wanted to know what damage he had done. Wanted to know what he had followed with his rejection.

He didn't know why, maybe to torment himself over it, maybe for some entirely other reason, but he wanted to know. 

Neither of those reasons were reasons to pressure Crowley, so he hadn’t. 

Besides, there had been such improvement on other matters that Aziraphale was fairly sure Crowley was already  _ far _ out of his comfort zone without telling him any specifics. 

For one, Crowley had sold the Mayfair flat. Aziraphale had repeatedly told him that he didn’t have to, that he understood if Crowley wanted to keep someplace that was private and  _ his own _ , but the sign had gone up and Crowley’s full-time,  _ only _ residence was now the cottage in South Downs. 

In response to this, there were no ‘official’ separate rooms in the cottage, but Aziraphale made an effort to keep out of the one across from the library if he wasn’t invited in. He  _ didn’t _ want Crowley to feel as though he had surrendered his right to privacy, and if he needed a place to be on his own, for whatever reason, Aziraphale wanted to make sure he had it. 

Not that Crowley was spending an awful lot of time in the cottage, with the sun out and garden growing. He had been quite busy planting every sort of flower and plant Aziraphale had ever heard of, and quite a few that he hadn’t. 

The garden was where Aziraphale’s companion currently was, on his knees and up to his elbows in earth and fertilizer and earthworms. Aziraphale had brought him some water just a few minutes ago, not willing to admit to Crowley or himself that he was checking on the demon. 

He knew Crowley didn’t want the knowledge that  _ something _ had happened to change how Aziraphale treated him, but he couldn’t help it if he was worried about the demon’s safety and stability now that he knew. 

Now that he knew just how fragile Crowley's grip on everything was. Just how much he had been subjected to after the Bastille.

He  _ tried _ not to worry, but anytime he heard a shout out the window or thought he heard a sob in the night, his senses were pricked and he couldn’t rest until he went and checked on Crowley. Even though the demon was always fine, and there had only been one occasion when he truly had been crying when Aziraphale thought that was what he heard. 

Crowley had been on-edge all week, and he didn’t know why. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t stop feeling like someone was watching him, and it wasn’t just Aziraphale glancing out the window at him. 

He  _ knew _ the angel was feeling a little more protective, was a little more jumpy when it came to Crowley’s safety, and he couldn’t really say that he minded. 

He felt a little safer knowing that the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, was looking out for him. 

But even Aziraphale’s constant vigilance couldn’t settle Crowley’s nerves this week. 

Finally, he stood up from where he was knelt in the garden, brushed his hands off on his jeans and walked back inside. “Zira?” 

Aziraphale poked his head around the corner, contemplated him with a gentle frown. “Crowley, dear, are you alright?”

Crowley’s pride wanted him to lie, wanted him to claim that he was fine and go and find refuge in the room across from the library, but he knew the feeling wouldn’t go away on its own. 

He shook his head. 

Instantly, the frown dissipated and Aziraphale walked over, pulled his arms around Crowley. “Can I help?” 

“I don’t know,” Crowley murmured into Aziraphale’s coat, taking a few deep breaths before gently pulling back. 

Aziraphale let him go immediately. “You’ll tell me if there’s something I can do to help?” He asked, staring up intently. 

Crowley nearly flinched under the weight of his gaze. “Of course, Aziraphale,” he agreed. 

“Do you want a distraction, or should I leave you be for now?”

Crowley didn’t know the answer to that, either. Aziraphale let him debate on the matter, staying still, not offering another suggestion. 

“I could use a distraction,” Crowley said finally, although he suspected that a distraction wouldn’t clear his head. “I don’t want to think about what’s running in my head,” he continued. 

Aziraphale nodded. “Well, I was thinking that it may be time to start cooking, if we don’t want to go out tonight,” he admitted, “or do you need something a little more… mind-occupying?”

“I think cooking will do.”

They had only been cooking ten minutes when Crowley had to leave. It wasn't helping and he was just feeling worse and worse.

His head was spinning as he spiralled down an old, familiar path. He had relived each of the sufferances Hastur had inflicted hundreds of times already, if he wasn't careful the taste of his own blood and flesh echoed in his mouth at any given moment, making his skin crawl and throat convulse. 

There were things he could never tell Aziraphale. That was one of them. The feeling of weakness, of truly being  _ beaten _ , it had a smell. A taste. 

Of iron and salt and rust and bile. 

There was more he would never admit. More ways he'd had his own form, his own body, his own  _ choices _ ripped away from him, more ways he'd been made aware that he may habit flesh and bone, but everything he was belonged to Hell. 

He still remembered every  _ second _ of Hastur holding a hand against his mouth and  _ violating _ every part of him he could against the mess of his own plucked feathers. Remembered the way they had bit into his back as he was forced to the ground and the demon who had taken such delight in pulling his feathers crawled on top of him, fucked him raw against the black plumage. 

How could he ever forget? Being molded into nothing more than an  _ object _ for Hastur to take his pleasure from, and any fight he put up just ended in humiliation. 

How could he forget that wasn't even the  _ last time?  _ It wasn't the  _ last time _ Hastur's vile breath had choked him while the Duke forced his way inside of whatever he could, whatever he  _ chose, _ not minding the tearing and shrieking from his victim. Hastur was just as content to use blood as lubricant as he was semen, or, Satan forbid, the times he turned Crowley's own body against him, drawing automatic reactions from his abused body. 

Hastur was always so  _ smug  _ about how well Crowley took him after that. Went so far as to claim that he  _ liked _ being jerked off by rough fingers pushing on his clit until he came, until he was wet enough to take the demon with only his own physical resistance to try and stop him. His body ceased to put up a fight as much as Crowley wanted to escape the intrusion.

It was its own form of torture, Hastur rubbing harsh circles on his clit and pressing fingers inside, whispering of how much Crowley must  _ enjoy _ this, drawing groans from the demon beneath him as his body reacted to stimulus, even as he fought to get away. 

It was so entirely  _ wrong,  _ it wasn't fair that Hastur knew exactly what to do to make his corporation respond, dragged unwilling orgasm after orgasm from the demon until the oversensitivity was too much to bear, until each movement of Hastur's fingers was a lick of flame against his body and he would still not have any relief. 

And still, after that, Hastur would not relent, would force his way into Crowley's dripping cunt and chase his own pleasure as the demon below him cried and wailed and wept, fought to get free. 

Hastur would spill deep inside of him, and only then would they be done. He would be hauled back onto the rack, semen still dripping from between his legs, shackled tightly and left in the dark to sob.

"Your little angel would never have you now," Hastur would hiss into his ear as he was leaving, "only Hell would want you, and you know that. It's why you  _ enjoy _ this game. You  _ enjoy _ being claimed by the only creature that ever will take you, you're like a bitch in heat, desperate for  _ anything."  _

Crowley would shake his head, tears streaking his cheeks, but Hastur would just leave. 

The manacles prevented miracles, prevented even the slightest change to his body that Crowley would make voluntarily. He could no sooner clean himself from the encounter as he could rid himself of the parts Hastur so loved to abuse. 

He simply had to wait for Hastur to come back. 

"Crowley?" 

Crowley's eyes snapped open. He sat bolt upright from where he had dozed off in a comfortable chair, eyes tearing around the room as he searched for Hastur. He could  _ feel _ the demon's hot breath on his shoulder, feel fingers bruising his thighs. 

"Crowley, dear? I don't mean to disturb you but you were crying out," Aziraphale said softly from where he stood in the doorway. "I was worried you were-"

Crowley nodded, cutting him off and gulping for some air. 

"I brought you some water, if you want it," Aziraphale offered. "You don't have to tell me anything, and I can go if you'd like me to."

Crowley shook his head. "C'm'ere," he breathed, drew in another deep breath, wiped the tears from his cheeks that betrayed his pain and panic. 

Aziraphale sat on his knees before him, on the plush carpet, and handed him the glass of water. "They can't hurt you anymore, Crowley, I  _ promise.  _ You're safe here," he whispered, staring up with adoration and concern in his blue eyes. "I'm going to protect you, I promise." 

Crowley nodded, gulped down the glass of water Aziraphale had brought and sat ramrod straight in the chair, heart still racing. 

"May I hold you, Crowley, or do you not want to be touched?" Aziraphale asked gently. 

Crowley nodded again, and the next thing he knew he was seated in Aziraphale's arms, cheek pressed against his lapels as more tears refused to stop falling. Aziraphale's fingers gently traced down Crowley's spine, encouraging the demon to relax against his chest. 

"He plucked my wings." 

His own voice sounded raw and weak, and it was all he could manage to say. If he thought of that, maybe he could forget about Hastur  _ raping  _ him atop those feathers. The humiliation of being completely overpowered and  _ ruined _ on top of his  _ own  _ feathers. The feathers he'd taken so long to learn to love in their new glossy black, the wings he'd taught himself to fly with after he Fell. 

The wings who's ebony colouring had once hurt more than anything in the world that he'd cleaned and preened and rebuilt into something he could be proud of. 

They had cushioned his back while Hastur took everything he had to give from him. 

Aziraphale reacted how he always did. Fighting to stay calm, fighting not to march himself into Hell and smite Hastur out of existence. 

Would he still care so much if he knew  _ how  _ ruined the goods he was protecting were? Good that didn't deserve his kindness, his protection, his unending  _ love?  _

Goods that had felt the only touch they deserved and screamed the whole time.

"I'm so sorry, my dear, he had no right to do that," Aziraphale whispered into his red hair. "I should have been there to protect you, I'd have torn what was left of his wings from his  _ spine," _ he hissed, uncharacteristically angry and Crowley flinched. 

Hastur had  _ mercifully _ never tried to remove his wings. 

He had made Crowley  _ thank  _ him for not trying to tear his wings from his back. Thank him, not just with his words, with anything he had to give until he remembered who he belonged to and what the only mercy he would see felt like. 

Aziraphale stopped speaking the moment Crowley flinched. "I'm sorry, dear. I shouldn't have gotten angry. I just… the thought of that  _ fiend  _ with his hands on your beautiful feathers, it's…" 

Aziraphale trailed off. His words weren't helping anyone, not Crowley and not himself. 

Instead, he continued trailing his fingers gently down Crowley's back, pressed a kiss to his hair. "I love you, my darling. If I could take this pain from you I would, I wouldn't even have to  _ think  _ about it. I'm so sorry, Crowley. You shouldn't have gone through this because of me." 

Crowley was silent for a long time, tears still tracing his cheeks as he tried to clear his mind, to just hold onto what Aziraphale was saying, that he was  _ loved. _

"Did worse," Crowley said finally, although he did not elaborate. 

Aziraphale nodded. "I know he did, love. I'm so sorry," he breathed. Pressed another kiss to Crowley's temple, right against his mark. "But he'll never do it again. You're safe with me. And nothing you can tell me will ever change that, darling, I love you more than anything and I'll protect you until my dying breath."

Nestled against Aziraphale's chest, Crowley almost believed him. That was closer than he had felt to believing those words in months. Aziraphale's arms felt warm and safe, and they could almost ward off Hastur's brutal hands and free him from the Duke's grip. 

"Love you too, Zira," Crowley said quietly, closing his eyes and breathing in Aziraphale's smell. 

The angel smelled of old books and vanilla and of fresh-fallen rain. He could taste it on the back of his tongue, more strongly than the taste of salt or blood or anything else forced down the back of his throat. A smell just heavy enough to be the good sort of overwhelming. 

Aziraphale held him tightly. 

"Would you read to me, angel?" Crowley asked softly.

"Of course, Crowley." 

Their book was in the bedroom, but a stern look at the table beside the chair from Aziraphale made reality forget that and the book was placed neatly on the table, where Aziraphale picked it up and began to read aloud. 

Crowley relaxed a little more, let Aziraphale's voice lull him into a peaceful, dreamless sleep. 

Aziraphale smiled down at the demon sleeping in his arms, a look of peace having finally returned to his face. 

Crowley didn't sleep much lately. 

Aziraphale was pleased that he was willing to shut his eyes and trust the angel now, pulled into the dimensions of rest by soft and gentle words and hands. 

He kissed Crowley's head and settled back in the chair to continue reading. 


End file.
